


Unexplained

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P America (Hetalia), 2P England (Hetalia), 2P Hetalia, 2P North Italy (Hetalia), Angst and Feels, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, Fanfiction, Gen, Heavy Angst, Horror, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), I Made Myself Cry, Mentioned Prussia (Hetalia), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Rewrite, Some Humor, Suspense, Thriller, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Something is stirring. A coup is in the works and the world is blissfully unaware. The game is survival and the advantage in not in their court.





	1. Chapter One

The bubbly, ginger Italian sat at the world conference, swinging his legs back and forth since his chair was perfect height for him to do that. He really hadn't wanted to go to the meeting that afternoon but Germany had forced him, so of course, he couldn't exactly say no. Well, he could, but Germany was scary!

Taking a look around, Italy recognized most of the other nations in the room but couldn't put a name with a face for most if quizzed about it. They were all sitting and minding their own business; fighting with each other; or in Russia's case, sitting there being as creepy as, well, just really creepy. It seemed like nothing was actually getting done so Italy shrugged and turned his attention back to the notebook in front of him on the table. Germany had given this rather nice looking, leather bound notebook to him so that maybe he would actually take useful notes during one of the meetings. Perhaps because the blonde intended it as a gift as well because come on, it was a handsome looking volume. Instead of using it for its intended purposes, he used it for drawings which annoyed Germany but the man decided not to point it out. Italy looked up at Greece to take look at his adorable reference that was sitting on the Greek's shoulder. He continued drawing his picture of the white, fluffy cat and admired how pretty the feline was. How couldn't he? Cats were so cute!

Italy yawned loudly after this and stretched his hands way above his head, annoying the German who was talking at the head of the table. Goodness! He needed a riposo. And food. Si! That sounded nice: food and a riposo. But sadly, he couldn't right now because he was stuck in this awfully boring meeting. The atmosphere of the room was tense, loud, and quite stuffy which didn't at all work for the spirited nation. Italy really needed out for a bit so when an idea hit him, he raised his hand.

"Germany! Hey, Germany!" Italy waved his hand back and forth, trying to gain said nation's attention. The blonde in question raised an eyebrow in irritation, blue eyes suddenly on Italy and slightly narrowed. "Can I go to the bathroom? Per favore! I'll be quick!"

"Ja. Hurry up."

Once the permission was given, Italy jumped up from his seat and bounded out into the hall with a delighted smile on his face in the victory of getting out of that room. He immediately slowed his speed down and strolled down towards the bathroom, making a few detours. By detours, he meant peeking into the offices for each of the respective countries to set up in while they were there for various meetings. He didn't actually have to go to the bathroom, obviously, and he just wanted something else to do.

Instead of making it to the restrooms, he went outside and took a meandering walk around the flower garden. It was so pretty! So lovely! The small male inhaled deeply through his nose, his hands clasping together as his lips spread into a large grin. The sun was warm and balmy as it shone down on his pale skin, wrapping him in a pleasant cocoon of warmth. It was a very nice day out and he wanted to spend the rest of the meeting out there but he knew he couldn't. Maybe he'd ask Germany afterwards if he wanted to do something outside! Well, besides training. He hated training so much because of how hard it was.

After deciding he should actually go to the bathroom so that he wouldn't be lying to Germany (he hated doing that), he turned around and headed back into the building. He found the farthest possible restroom just to take up more time as he still didn't want to head back yet. As he entered into the men's bathroom on the third floor and entered one of the stalls, he sat on the toilet lid, not really doing anything, just sitting.

That's when it hit him out of blue. Sudden, white hot pain in his midsection that made him wrap his arms around his middle, squeezing himself as he crumpled forward. It morphed into feeling like something was tearing apart his insides with razor edged claws which winded him as he gagged, head hanging between his knees. His vision went blurry and he dry heaved a few times, the blood rushing to his head and making it pound from the position he was in. And as soon as it had come, it was gone, leaving behind an uneasy nausea in his stomach and a headache settled just behind his brows.

Italy stumbled to his feet and struggled to unlock the stall door with clammy, fumbling hands that shook with terrified tremors. The lock cracked and budged just barely which allowed him to fall forward, through the door and catch himself against the sink. He stared down at the ceramic basin of the sink with the rusted drain at the bottom and he clenched his hands on either side of it. His forehead scrunched up as his brows furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut, shoulders beginning to shake as well. He tried to breathe in deeply a few times, small wheezing sounds leaving him before he had the courage to open his eyes again. He managed to raise head to look into the mirror only to be met with a chilling sight that made his eyes widen in shock. They were blood red. His eyes! Rosso! I suoi occhi! 

His usually soft, ginger hair was a dark brown and it looked completely disheveled. Accompanying that, there were dark circles under his unnatural, piercing eyes and before he could take in the sight for any longer, he squeezed his eyes closed again. No, no. That was wrong.

Opening his eyes again slowly, he gazed at his reflection in fear. That same, twisted reflection that made tears well up in his eyes, as if it had a mind of its own, grinned and raised its hands. They were covered in blood and the substance dripped down his forearms, staining the rolled cuffs of his shirt. It was then that he realized that he, himself, was also holding up his hands. He looked at them sharply. Clean. He glanced back at his reflection, nostrils flared in a terrified expression. Looking back at him was a knowing little smirk which sent him overboard. He shook his head wildly and ran out of the bathroom, letting out a cry. His eyes were wide and scared as he stood outside the door, his heart thundering against his ribcage as his breathing turned ragged.

Italy bit down hard on his bottom lip as tears streamed down his face, rolling down his neck as well as sobs overtook him. He turned on his heel and sprinted back towards the meeting room, tripping down the flights of stairs with unsure feet. Come on, Feli! Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong! It was his silly little imagination run wild. It was his fucking imagination. He froze and stopped running abruptly as that thought passed him, catching himself on the banister of the stairs to stop himself from falling. He had never sworn before. Never in his life. Not even in his head or when Lovino tried to coerce him into it. He whimpered once more and started running again, down the last few sets of stairs towards the hall the meeting room was on. He scrubbed his face with his fists furiously to get rid of the tears, willing himself to push it all down as he stopped outside the meeting room. He waited there and listened in for a good ten minutes, making sure his face was presentable before making his quiet entrance into the room.

Italy sat down silently in his spot and closed his notebook, ignoring the unfinished cat drawing for now. He pretended to pay attention this time but his mind was distracted like usual and plagued by what had just happened. What was happening to him? He definitely couldn't tell anyone or else they'd think he finally went crazy or something. No, he couldn't say anything yet. He wouldn't even know what to say anyways. 

He sank down against the back of his chair, crossing his arms as his eyes slipped halfway closed because of the lights that irritated his onset headache. Soon enough, however, everything turned rather quiet and Italy looked around him, perking back up. Oh. Everyone was gone besides Germany who was packing up his things into his briefcase. The blonde nation looked up at the unusually quiet Italian nation in mild curiousity which Italy returned with a slightly harsh look. Germany blinked, taken aback, but the look was gone. Italy stood, picking up his things quickly before heading for the door.

"Hurry up." He told Germany quickly, internally cringing at how sharp that tone sounded. He looked away towards the door before pushing out a, "I'm hungry! I want to make… pasta." He followed it up with a cheerful little laugh that he wasn't quite feeling.

Germany seemed convinced enough by it as he huffed and pushed past him. He grumbled something that the Italian didn't quite catch before waving at him to follow. "Ja, I know come on."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Italy was able to make pasta rather cheerfully and it seemed as he had gained some of his energetic spirits back after a nap. Prussia and Romano had both joined them for dinner as was per usual at that house. Prussia lived there, sometimes disappearing off on an adventure for the weekend and Romano lived nearby, coming to enjoy a warm meal whenever he wasn't in the mood for cooking himself. Romano, however, looked as excited as a rebellious teenager attending their kid brother's preschool concert - which was still quite normal. Prussia, on the flipside to Romano, was his normal egotistical, vocal self.

Italy placed the pot of sauced pasta down on the table, serving himself first as he usually did while Germany poured drinks for the four of them. The sauce was a creamy garlic alfedo because the poor thing, well, he was unable to bring himself to make the red tomato sauce which reminded too much of his ordeal that afternoon. Throughout dinner, Italy remained, for the most part, quiet except for random points of him laughing or telling a story. This gained a few questioning looks passed between his brother and Germany which was a noticable thing since those two rarely ever shared an expression mutually. Italy, upon becoming uneasy by those small looks, removed himself from the table with some detailed, bullshit excuse and ended up shutting himself in his room.

The small nation fell to his knees next to his bed and hugged one of the pillows he managed to snag as he leaned against the mattress. He turned his body slowly towards the tall standing mirror opposite of him, letting his back lean up against his wooden bed frame. That scary, brown haired and red eyed self stared back, not surprising Italy at all as his stomach twisted with anxiety. He looked away and buried his face into the pillow he was holding in his lap, feeling tears stinging his eyes. Was he going insane? He gave a small whimper, shaking his head a bit before a thought came over him and jerked up. He lifted his hand sharply and threw something that he hadn't realized he'd been clutching with a death grip since he had left the kitchen. Whatever it was caused a solid sounding thud which made him flinch immediately. He willed himself to look at the wall, towards the spot he had thrown the object and it made his heart rate speed up. Imbedded in the wall was one of the kitchen knives, assumedly snatched right as he had been leaving but where it had landed caused his throat to close up in fear and he buried his face back into the pillow, sliding to the ground. He covered his head with his trembling arms and sobbed. He had pierced the picture of Germany that was hung there straight through the heart. He hated this so much. Why was this happening? Those thoughts flitted through his head the rest of the evening as he cried himself to sleep.

The next morning came quickly after a pretty consistent night's sleep but he still woke up in a very uncomfortable position. The skin of his face felt tight from the dried tears and his nose a bit stuffed up. All in all, he felt awful. He let out a small groan and sat up slowly, realizing that for the first time ever he was completely awake and alert which felt very odd. He sat there with the pillow in his lap for a few minutes, just starting at his hands in silence. He eventually stood and walked over to the knife protruding from the wall, gripping the handle to yank it out. He'd return it to the kitchen collection.

He stepped out of his room hesitantly, listening to the eerily quiet house as his feet crinkled against a note that was laying in front of his door. He surprised himself; for the first time in what seemed like forever, he had gotten up before Germany. He looked down at his feet in curiosity, leaning down to snatch up the piece of paper he had stepped on and slipped the knife into his pants almost as an instinctive afterthought. He stood there, reading the familiar scratchy handwriting of Lovino as he read a message that consisted of passively worried emotion and a few begrudging offers to talk about what was going on if he needed it. It actually made him smile a bit as he folded it up and stuck it into his other pocket before making his way out to the kitchen.

He sat down on top of the counter, swinging his legs back and forth, staying silent as he listened to the lack of noise. Crazy. He'd never been up this early. It was so quiet that he could hear the birds chirping outside. Eventually, though, his ears picked up movement from Germany's room so he slipped back off the counter and hid himself into a corner of the kitchen. 

The blonde yawned and stretched his large arms above his head briefly as he entered the assumingly unoccupied kitchen, his hair messy and falling over his brows. He turned on the coffee machine and ran a hand through said hair, humming to himself. 

"Italy's still in bed... Like usual," The man sighed as he grumbled that out. Italy's eyebrow twitched some in irritation at that as he stepped out of his corner. As Germany turned at the sound of shuffling feet, Italy slumped his shoulders and quickly made his eyes halflidded as if he were still sleepy. "Ah! Italy. I didn't expect you to be up at this time." The ginger Italian shrugged his shoulders in response to that and flung open the fridge. "Well, good morning to you too." He continued after not getting a verbal greeting that he was used to. That caused Italy to snort loudly with a dry laugh as he looked through the contents of the fridge.

"I don't do 'good morning', you know that Lutz." His eyes widened at what just slipped out of his mouth, making his heart actually skip a few beats as his body went cold. As fast as they had widened, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Something was taking over - that wasn't him at all.

"Who's Lutz?" A question he had not wanted to hear. Italy forced on his most convincing smile and glanced back at the German, swinging his arms dopely as he spun to him completely.

"Haha! No silly, I said Luds! As in short for Ludwig~! Good morning! I was only joking. Wasn't that funny?" He felt ultra proud of sounding more like himself finally but part of him actually internally cringed at the cheer, making his stomach churn again.

"Oh.." Germany didn't sound entirely convinced and that stupid question had Italy frowning as he turned back to the fridge. Who actually was this Lutz? Better yet, who was taking over?

\-----------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks had past without too much incident, making Italy feel more much confident and cheery. But coming to think of it, in retrospect, perhaps that confidence boost was what finally set it off completely.

Italy woke up with a start and sat up abruptly, small ragged pants and gasps leaving him as if he had been drowning and finally broke the surface of the water. He looked towards the mirror to his left, blinking a few times to adjust to the early morning light. Staring back was no longer that brown haired self but his skinny, pale, ginger self. Suddenly, as if his aware presence was what caused it, his reflection started crying and pawing at the inside of mirror desperately. Pitiful. A small victorious smirk curled the edges of his lips at the sight. He looked away and picked up his mobile phone that was sitting on the bedside table. He turned it on, frowning at the brightly colored lock screen before swiping at at the camera icon to pull it up. He flipped the camera to look at himself in it, satisfaction running through him as the camera confirmed his triumph. His hair had become a familiar muddy brown and his eyes were a piercing sort of red. He reached his hand up to trace the thin scar that curved itself across his face. 

"We did it, baby."

This was all going according to plan and he had known he could easily succeed in doing it. His counterpart was one of the weakest nations, after all. Poor, poor Feliciano. The wimp would figure it out soon enough and if he didn't, it didn't matter to him at all. He glanced back over to said ginger who's back was pressed to the mirror which made him snort a bit. That was an interesting sight.

He got dressed in a tan uniform, having to look through Romano's old boxes he had left in that room. He was glad he knew where to find them because there was no way in hell he was going to wear that cheery blue uniform. He could easily access Feliciano's memories as his own whenever he needed information having been working at that for a while now. He grabbed a part of black boots, pulling them on and tying them up tightly with focused precision before heading out of his room. He stepped into Germany's unoccupied bedroom and stole one of the two pistols he kept in the bedside table, slipping it into an empty holster at his hip. After that, he went out to the front room where he knew he could find two rather sharp looking combat knives tucked away in a box that sat at the top of the bookshelf. Useful. He armed himself with those before turning on his heel and exiting the house. 

Just as was Italy's usual God damn luck, Romano came storming up to the front of the house in an air of wrath and frustration. "Fratello! I need to speak to that bastardo di patate, proprio-" He cut himself off midsentence and completely froze. "Eh, Feliciano? The fuck are you wearing?"

Italy kept walking past him casually, making Romano scoff indignantly before he was taken by surprise as a cold knife was pressed to his neck. Italy's hand was steady and his voice deadly quiet. "If you tell anyone about this interaction, I will hunt you down and fucking slit your throat."


	2. Chapter Two

America lounged on his back porch under a large awning as he swirled what was left of the half empty beer around in its bottle that he held clutched in his hand. In recent weeks, everything had been irritating him; a great conflict of emotions swirling inside him and the way his brows were neatly furrowed in general distaste outwardly demonstrated that. As a testament to this internal power struggle, his use of casual cursing had skyrocketed much to his dismay, and became quite noticeable to those around him. Along with that, his usually long lasting fuse blew much faster and sometimes at the smallest of things, making him very unpredictable. These small, unpredictable fits of violent rage sometimes overtook him which made Canada distance himself and soon Matthew stopped visiting him altogether which made his chest ache whenever he thought about it. He had no clue why these things were happening and had become more reclusive because of it, scared that he'd lose it and hurt someone. The fingers of his free hand tapped quickly in a steady enough rhythm, betraying his current, seemingly foul mood.

"Alfred Franklin Jones, you wanker! Get your bloody arse back in here!" The shout broke the uneasy silence from inside the house where the American had left England to figure out what was happening with dinner that night. They had been arguing over how to follow the recipe which was altogether very stupid, so America had finally just abandoned England, leaving him to his own devices. He had long since ordered online delivery for himself after sitting down outside since he knew dinner was already a complete disaster. He didn't really mind ordering himself something to eat though because nothing that he had in his pantry had seemed appetizing. The shouting, however, was really pushing at his temper but he forced his eyes closed and willed himself to stay seated, now tapping his foot as well as his fingers. 

"England, I swear on my fucking life, I'm gonna smash your brains in if you yell at me one more time." America snapped in response before taking a swig from the bottle he was holding, almost finishing it off but not quite. Well, pausing to take a breath obviously hadn't stopped the urge to bark back at the man. Damn.

"Well, I'll say! I've just about had it with all this talking back. And if you much as think to talk like that to me one more time, so help me God, I will.." England trailed off immediately as he walked out onto the porch, halting in front of the bored and obviously unimpressed American, staring at him in disbelief. He'd never actually seen the younger nation drink alcohol. Not publicly at least. "Aren't you underage?"

"You would think, being alive for as long as I have been, that they'd give me a fucking freebie.." America laughed a bit before shrugging and threw back the rest of his drink before standing up so that he could access his pockets better. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped it to his other hand before shaking one out. He pressed it between his lips and tucked away the box again so that he could light it.

"What is with the attitude? And the drinking and smoking? You've gone bloody mental, you have."

America gave another snorting little laugh and rolled his eyes dramatically, looking over the top of his sunglasses at the Brit in what looked like slight amusement. England's eyes widened a hair when he saw that America's eyes were a shade of red instead the bright, lively blue he was familiar to seeing. "You're one to talk, Grumps." He pushed his sunglasses back up as he blew out a wisp of smoke and leaned back to rest against the railing. 

England was speechless for once and he took a step back, trying to register what exactly he had just witnessed. He blinked rapidly and pulled himself back together, shaking his head. "I'll go finish making dinner..." He muttered before turning away quickly and disappearing inside.

"You know I'm not eating that shit, right? It looked fucking disgusting." America called after him, smirking a little. That smugness lasted for a bit longer, an aching in the back of his head getting stronger and he frowned again. "Shit. Come on, Rookie.. Ease up, will you?" He paused for a few moments before dropping his cigarette in disgust and feeling guilty for shouting at England but also wildly excited that he seemed to have gained the upper hand of whatever internal boxing match he'd been going through lately. He followed after the Englishman to apologize, wanting to tell him about everything that was happening but he stopped almost as soon as he had started, catching himself on the door as a searing pain shot through his skull. "No! Ach- I don't- Please, don't. I'm not leaving. I don't want to go!" He whimpered, dry sobbing a few times as he slowly sank to his knees. His eyes teared up and he looked up desperately at England who had noticed him and was promptly rushing towards him to aid him.

Unfortunately, before England could do much more than just hold onto the trembling American, his vision quickly went fuzzy and then went black.

When America finally came to, he gagged and gasped for breath, clawing at his throat as he gave hollow sounding coughs from deep in his chest. He sat up rigidly on the kitchen floor where he had been laying, immediately spotting Arthur who was standing away from him, eyes locked onto him like a deer in headlights and in a manner that showed he had been standing there like that for a bit now. He managed to catch his breath as he sat there before moving his hands up to push through his hair. 

"Hey. How do I look?" He asked and the Brit shook his head a few times, his back pressed to the wall. He looked down at his scarred and tanned hands, grinning slowly as he flexed his fingers. England had obviously just been witness to the changing of the American's body and it explained why he looked so shell shocked. "Oh, hell yes. We're in business." He ran his teeth over his bottom lip and caught his piercing with them, feeling a familiar little tug as he did so which caused him to close his eyes as he did a ridiculous little happy dance from where he sat. "That little pussy boy was being such a pain in the ass to lock away, I swear. Don't have to worry about him anymore, though, thank fuck. All the conflicting emotions. So fucking annoying."

As the man admired himself for a bit, there was a sudden crash from the back yard and America jerked up straight at that, attention immediately taken away from the white faced England who was still wilted against the wall. He warily stood up, stepping out the back door and onto the porch as he snagged the wooden bat that was leaned against the wall. He gripped it tightly, finding it a familiar reassurance to hold it as a weapon the way he did. He stepped out further, bat up and ready only to be met with a very unexpected (and somewhat appreciated) sight. 

"Luciano?" He asked in shock, still holding the bat up in case he needed to beat the intruder up since he couldn't quite see the man's face as he struggled about. He rose a brow as the man continued to spout out an extremely colorful string of phrases. "Excuse me, sugar, we're about to get into a sticky situation if you don't respond." He huffed and glared at the man dangling upside down by his foot on his side of the privacy wall. All things considered, it was comeplete comedy gold for the American and he etched this moment into his memories for future reference. The cursing soon ebbed and the man looked towards him fully.

"Oh. Ciao, Allen." The Italian grunted unhappily before pausing and then gasping. He wasn't sure if he was happy or not to see him but despite that, this was a great situation. "Whoa wait! You bastard! You've fully crossed over, too!"

Allen straightened up, a stupid grin on his face as he lowered his bat slightly. "Hell yeah and I'm looking fine as ever." Luciano rolled his eyes, already irritated by the other and kicked his leg as he planted his free foot against the wall which succeeded in releasing his other foot finally. He landed on his head, barely managing to break part of his fall with his arms. 

"Ah, Christ!" Luciano rambled off on a hundred other curses in his native language while Allen walked on over with a smirk, gazing down at him in a rather condescending way. The Italian stood up, brushing himself off before looking the brown haired American over. "What are you doing here?"

Allen's eyebrow twitched curiously as he looked the disheveled man over as well. "I live here. What are you doing here, huh?"

"Oh. I thought it was the next one over. Anyways, I assumed you'd be the most likely one to be farther along in the process of crossing over than anyone else and that I'd be able to help pull you through." Luciano grunted and started towards the house, brushing himself off still. "Guess you're more capable than I thought."

"Where are you going?"

"Into your house." Luciano shrugged and flipped him off, taking the steps up the porch as Allen followed behind him. He comfortably rested the bat across his shoulders, sighing a bit.

"Rude motherfucker."

"Si."

Allen followed Luciano into his house and Arthur had continued to cook the disastrous looking meal he was working on. Whatever had happened to Alfred had spooked him but he made sure not to leave in case there was something more he could do to fix the situation. It had looked like some sort of magic and he was good with magic, right? He could figure this out easily! He immediately regretted that decision to stay as he turned his head and had to give a double take. Was that Italy?

Luciano halted upon seeing the other and pulled out the pistol on his hip, aiming it towards England who in turn, held up his hands and began backing away. "I thought you said this was your house, you stupido, cazzo di stronzo." He barked at Allen, staring at England in distrust.

"Whoa, hey, yo. It is, dumbass, so cool your fucking tits, man." Allen moved closer to him, not seeming at all intimidated by the gun.

"Then why is he here?" Luciano pointed towards Arthur with the gun and the movement made the man flinch as he still stood with his hands up in surrender. The Brit felt his blood run cold and his mouth go dry, eyes flickering between the Italian, the American and the gun.

"Lookie here, Mr. Frank Castle. He's fine. He'll piss himself before he tells anyone about us. How about you lower your gun and not shoot anyone?" Allen huffed, watching the Italian with careful eyes.

England backed away as Luciano got closer, the gun still aimed at the blonde. "Eh, that so? Promise not to tell anyone about us or I'll kill you here and now." England nodded quickly, his legs trembling and practically turning to jelly under him. Luciano nodded slowly and then pushed his pistol back into its holster. "Good."

"Aight, there we go. No need to be a killing people yet, right? That'd hurt the whole game plan." After Allen said that, Luciano pulled away, narrowing his eyes more. 

"Fair enough." He started towards the stairs that led to the second story, hand still somewhat hovering around his holster. "Coming, Allen? We need to get working on things."

"Yessir! Coming, Luce!" Allen called after him, adjusting his grip on his bat slowly and watching as he left up the stairs. He shook his head after a few silent moments, waiting until he was sure the Italian was out of earshot before turning to a stonefaced Arthur. 

"Be careful and don't get caught up with us. Stay out of the way, damn it. Okay? I ain't one to be a right worrier, but don't get yourself killed." He grumbled, not knowing why he felt the need to warn him, and left. He jogged up the stairs to join Luciano before he could hear the Brit's reply that was whispered into the quietness of the kitchen.

"Of course... poppet."


End file.
